


Post-Post Traumatic

by DaAmazingMeepers



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, John's having nightmares, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Post Reichenbach, Sherlock doesn't like it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-12
Updated: 2013-04-12
Packaged: 2017-12-08 07:27:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/758692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DaAmazingMeepers/pseuds/DaAmazingMeepers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Right now, all you can do is just be not dead,” John replied.  “Be here when I need you, that’s all I ask.”</p><p>Sherlock drew closer, now mere inches from John; close enough that he could feel the warmth of his breath.  “And when do you need me?” he murmured.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Post-Post Traumatic

It was happening all over again.

John was standing on the pavement looking up at the roof of St. Bart’s, and Sherlock was up there, ready to let himself fall to the ground. John knew what was going to happen; he had replayed it in his head too many times to count.

But this time it was different. This time the war in Afghanistan had joined them. Bombs were exploding all around them, and John’s army mates were dying one by one. The blood of soldiers and civilians alike pooled at his feet. Still, John couldn’t take his eyes off of the tall man in the long dark coat – his best friend – who was standing on the roof.

He could see Sherlock toss his phone to the side. Had he even used it this time? The detective’s name was torn hoarsely from John’s lips. His brain was screaming at him to run and somehow catch him, as bad an idea as that was, but it felt like his feet were cemented to the ground. He couldn’t stop it.

He watched as Sherlock’s arms rose as if he was meant to fly, and then he fell.

The sickening crunch as he hit the ground made John’s heart break all over again. His feet finally came free of the pavement and then he was running straight to Sherlock’s side. This time there was no hospital staff to hold him back from falling to his knees at the body of his best friend. Hands shaking more than they ever had before, he turned Sherlock’s head toward him.

Half of his face was blown away to reveal the skull underneath.

Unable to tear his eyes from the horrifying sight, John hardly registered the whistling of an oncoming bomb as it headed straight for the hospital that was towering over them. It connected and the whole building was engulfed in a huge explosion that—

\---

John’s eyes sprang open and he sat up, a shout dying on his lips. His breath was coming heavy, as if he had just been running for hours straight, at it took him a moment to remember that he was in his bed in 221B, and that Sherlock was downstairs, having returned after being “dead” for three years. With a sigh, he dragged a weary hand down his face, willing his pattering heart to slow to a more acceptable rate. This was the third nightmare this week, and there had been many weeks prior with similar dreams.

After a few moments of getting his bearings back and a quick glance at the clock – it read 2:14 am – John determined that he wouldn’t be returning to sleep any time soon. He stood and pulled on his robe. Perhaps a shower would help calm him down and make him feel tired. He padded into the bathroom downstairs, noting as he walked by that Sherlock’s bedroom light was off. ‘Finally getting some proper sleep, is he?’ he thought to himself. ‘About time.’

Sherlock’s eating and sleeping habits hadn’t changed much since he returned to Baker Street, excluding the twelve hour “nap” that he had taken right after he managed to convince John that he wasn’t dead. The doctor had begun to wonder if he hadn’t returned to life just to die all over again on the sofa when he finally woke. Other than that, life in the flat had essentially returned to normal. 

Well, almost normal.

John turned the water in the shower onto full heat before letting his clothes sink to the floor. He didn’t get under the spray until he saw steam rising above the curtains. The heat wasn’t unexpected, but it did sting and make him suck air between his teeth until he grew used to the temperature. He ran his hands through his hair, letting the water that plastered it to his head run down his face and neck, sighing as it dripped off him and into the drain.

Slowly he felt himself begin to calm down, but the heat and the steam did nothing to make the pain that had taken up residence in his heart dissipate. ‘It was only a dream,’ he told himself, ‘It was only a dream,’ but no matter how many times he chanted this mantra in his head, the ache wouldn’t go away.

At last, he felt as though he had wasted enough water and turned it off. He toweled himself off before redressing himself in the pyjamas and robe and turning off the bathroom light. He trudged back up the stairs, ready to battle another restless night.

To his surprise, when he got to his room he found Sherlock sitting on his bed. He was staring at John, his intense blue eyes taking in everything about him. “The nightmares have returned,” he murmured, his words voiced as an observation rather than a question.

John’s surprise ebbed away, and he scratched the back of his head, covering up his weariness with sheepishness. “Oh, I’m sorry I woke you,” he apologized. “You need more sleep than—“

“John,” Sherlock interrupted. 

Just the way he said his name was enough to send chills up John’s spine. He found he couldn’t hold his friend’s gaze and looked to the side, his lips pursed. Sherlock clearly wanted to talk about things, and all John wanted to do was crawl back under the covers until morning came. 

At last, Sherlock spoke again. “I’ve hurt you far more than you’ve let on.”

John flinched. There had been plenty of anger on his part when Sherlock had returned; he had even punched him in the face; the bruise on his cheek was still visible. But after that, John had become calm again and they hadn’t spoken of it since. “It’s fine,” John replied, his tone somewhat stiff. “You explained your reasoning to me; you did what you had to do.”

“I’m not denying that it was necessary,” Sherlock responded. “But I never imagined that my absence would cause you this much pain.”

John’s gaze became hard, even though he still couldn’t meet Sherlock’s eyes. He crossed his arms and grumbled, “Well what did you bloody expect? That I would just move on after seeing my best friend kill himself? People don’t just magically recover from that, Sherlock.”

A heavy silence passed between them for some time. Then John heard the bed creak as Sherlock stood, and when the taller man next spoke he was less than a foot away. “I don’t want you to hide your thoughts from me,” he whispered, his deep voice filled with regret as it rolled over John. 

“Oh, you mean like you did?” John asked, is tone biting, but almost immediately after he regretted saying it; he could see Sherlock wince out of the corner of his eye. “Sorry,” he muttered.

“John, look at me,” Sherlock begged.

John hesitated before turning his head so that his eyes met Sherlock’s. He almost gasped when he saw the intensity of the emotion that was spilling from them. He hadn’t thought Sherlock was capable of expressing that much emotion, and it was unsettling and comforting at the same time.

“I don’t want you to hate me, John,” Sherlock said quietly. “You’re the only one I’ve ever been this close to, and I don’t want to lose that. So please don’t keep something like this from me.”

John’s heart about broke. Sherlock was basically pouring his heart out to John, and he could tell the detective was sincere. He really thought that John would leave him after all this. “I could never hate you, Sherlock,” he sighed, rubbing at his eyes. “I’ve spent too long wishing for you to come back to give all that up now. I just…” He bit his lip, trying to figure out how to word what he was trying to say. “It takes time for me to get over something like this. It almost doesn’t seem real. Three years of nightmares added to PTSD is a lot to try and get over in a couple of weeks, you know?”

Sherlock nodded, looking relieved that John had no intention of pushing him away, but still concerned about his friend. “I want to help,” he requested. “Tell me what to do and I’ll do it.”

John let out a slightly incredulous chuckle, but there was warmth to it. “Right now, all you can do is just be not dead,” John replied. “Be here when I need you, that’s all I ask.”

Sherlock drew closer, now mere inches from John; close enough that he could feel the warmth of his breath. “And when do you need me?” he murmured.

John’s heart beat faster and his throat suddenly felt very dry. To have Sherlock so close was doing strange things to his emotions, and all of the things he had wished he had said to the detective in the last three years were suddenly at the tip of his tongue, ready to bubble over. However, he instead let his instincts take over and before he could stop himself he had Sherlock in a tight embrace. “Now,” he answered hoarsely. “And tomorrow, and the day after, and pretty much always.”

Sherlock had frozen when he felt John’s arms surround him. He had never been a touchy-feely person unless the thing he was touching and feeling was evidence. However, he soon relaxed and returned the hug, finding it to be the most natural thing he’d ever done. “I won’t leave again,” he promised, soothingly rubbing up and down John’s back. “Not like that.”

When John’s grip became less frantic and his eyelids began to flutter, Sherlock pulled him back toward the bed, helping him to lie down on it. As he moved to return to his own bedroom, John gripped his t-shirt, halting his movement. “Stay here,” he mumbled pleadingly. “Just tonight.”

Carefully removing his shirt from John’s grasp, Sherlock obediently crawled onto the bed next to him. The moment he laid down, John snuggled into him like he was his only comfort, and at this point he probably was. A long, pale arm snaked around John’s waist and rested there comfortably. 

A niggling thought in the back of John’s mind reminded him that this was not exactly the sort of thing that flatmates did, even if they were best mates, but the rest of him was telling him that he needed this, and he had a feeling that Sherlock did too. As he drifted off, he thought that maybe he imagined Sherlock’s lips brushing his forehead and his silky baritone whispering, “Goodnight, John.”

There were no more nightmares after that.

**Author's Note:**

> Oh man, for some reason I got stuck somewhere around the end for a few days. I still don’t think it ended exactly the way I wanted it to. Writer’s block, y u do this to me?? 
> 
> But yes, I didn’t want to make this too romantic, because I wanted to focus on how they both repaired their friendship after Sherlock came back before I got into any lovey-dovey stuff. I still couldn’t resist throwing a little Johnlock in there, because I am a hopeless romantic, whether I like it or not. 
> 
> Anyhoo, now I’ll see about working on the Sherlock AU that I’ve been trying to figure out. Hopefully it’ll turn out better than this one. Thank you for reading!


End file.
